Dreams of Ghosts
by shattered petal
Summary: Whatever anger he had felt in the past was nothing compared to what he had felt then. -Roy/Olivier; character death


**Title**: Dreams of Ghosts  
**Genre**: Angst  
**Rating**: T  
**Couple**: Slight Roy/Olivier

* * *

The Manor is cold and lifeless.

From where he stands, not a single sound can be heard. It's quiet; freakishly quiet–– but then he can hear his heartbeat. Slow, at ease, so much agony has been endured his heart can no longer respond to his mind. Less than a few days ago, however, he had been shaking, trembling, incapable of eating or drinking. As if he was suffering a fever, a fever which couldn't be cured, and he didn't know what to do about it.

Yet even though the worst has passed, that doesn't mean he has recovered.

Over the past hour he has been gazing out of the same, large window, watching the fountains burst with water. Never has water looked so exciting to him, not for a long while. The last time he ever felt this enticed by a fountain was almost two decades ago. Clenching a fist, he averts his gaze and watches the huge gate, locked and secure.

Has he honestly been waiting for a guest? Has he honestly been waiting for _her_?

Because, yes, by some magical cause she shall just appear. Open the doors and laugh at him for believing her cruel trick. One of her many pranks; she has played dead before when they were younger, never ceasing to surprise and upset him. By the time they attended the academy, it became quite clear that Roy was very sensitive about the deaths of those close to him. So she never tricked him about death again, and Roy was grateful for that.

Yet, standing here, he can't help but _beg_. _Beg_ that she is pulling a prank on him, acting like a child and messing around. Even if it might irritate him, or anger him, or upset him, at least he can be happy and relieved that she is okay. When they were younger, death was hardly a threat. The military was hardly a threat, just another challenge both were eager to take on.

Wiping a hand down his face, he is certain he can still smell–– _feel_ blood. Her blood, leaking between his fingers while he desperately pressed his hand against the wound. But he was too tense, much too tense, panicking. He hadn't panicked like this for so long, and during a time _he must not panic_ he _did_. Roy tried to speak, almost asking her what he should do–– there wasn't help nearby, tell me something, order me a command, _anything_––

The wound was too deep, too big. The blade effortlessly ripped through her soft flesh, punctured her lung, and stabbed through her back. Roy had been beaten to the ground, blood pouring from his scalp, but his ears were alert, were sensitive–– he could _hear_ her flesh tearing, and he dared to look up and watch the blade be thrust into her.

Whatever anger he had felt in the past was _nothing_ compared to what he had felt then.

A black, scolding rage of an inferno scolded his very body and he exploded, flames shooting from every side of him, while he, blind with fury, tortured the enemy alive. Let his skin melt, drip, heard his screams, heard him beg, smelt burning flesh, how _pathetic_ and _weak_–– Roy never stopped, Roy _never stopped_ until he was certain there was nothing left but ash.

Yet he didn't wait; didn't wait to check. He was already on his knees, claiming her jacket and shaking her. The blade weighed her down, and he, foolishly, grabbed the handle and pulled the wretched thing out of her body. She was already dead, though; the moment she fell to the ground, she was no longer breathing, pale and gone. _Gone_.

It took a couple of seconds for him to realise his best friend was dead.

A horrible silence filled the atmosphere, and then he was breathing fast, heavily, tears stinging his eyes, making his vision blurred. Roy couldn't keep calm, suddenly he was lonely, afraid, scared, a lost little boy all over again without a friend. He continued to cling to her jacket, but couldn't look at her, he _couldn't_ see her face. It wouldn't be right. She always had a bright face, dangerous face, rebellious, wild–– death had taken these glories from her.

But Roy had always been a sensitive boy, and he had always been very human.

The tears came silently at first, but he still couldn't look at her. Tears trickled down his cheeks, landing on her blood-soaked military jacket, and then he sobbed bitterly, letting his forehead rest at her shoulder, and he cried. Roy cried, his tears meeting the blood which pooled the ground, and everything stung, everything pulled and squeezed at his heart.

All those years –– since they were five-years-old –– gone.

Then, he raised his head and looked at her. Roy scrunched his eyes closed, opened them again, claimed her face in his hands and almost spoke.

–– _Very funny, Olivier. Stop this, stop this, I don't like this.  
_–– _You're such an idiot, Mustang. As if I'd let myself die before you.  
_–– _I don't want to talk about death. It upsets me._  
_–– A lot of things upset you._

And the tears kept falling, falling to her cheeks, her jacket, the ground. Roy grieved, grieved to whatever cruel and wicked God existed, and hated the world. For the first time, Roy couldn't stop crying. Only one person had been able to make him stop crying, to make him stop weeping and to find the strength, to stand and move on.

It was so cruel why that person had to be the one in his arms right now, who he pathetically wept for, as if hoping she might, somehow, wake up.

Roy stands and waits, hoping the gates shall open and she shall appear. Yet he knows that shall never happen; he can wait in the Manor he inherited from her, wait and wait, wait for a childhood they once endured. He can run for her, run through the fields they used to play in, run through the knee-deep snow in the hopes she might be at the Fort, no longer desiring his company––

–– But only fools dream of ghosts.

When the rain patters against the window, Roy's heart frantically beats. The window becomes blurry with droplets, he watches them create a trail, like tears, and soon the gate is no longer viewable. Roy looks away, and allows himself to cry one more time.

The Manor is still without her.

As is life.  
As is everything for him.

She is, and always has been, his life.

_And yet I have always been a bit of a fool, though, haven't I?_

* * *

**author's note**: It's 1:00am, and I can't stop crying. This was triggered by something earlier today, and I had to write it really. The relationship between Roy and Olivier is slightly headcanon, especially the theory that they were close friends as children. If you remember, Roy was Olivier's heir to the Armstrong Estate if she died, so, because she's dead, he now possesses her property. Of course, possessing such a large Manor to himself doesn't help Roy's grievances.

Yeah, this wasn't a happy oneshot. Please review! Thanks.

P.S. The whole "why she died" thing hasn't been explained on purpose. My point in this oneshot was to focus on how Roy might possibly respond to the death of someone he cares a lot for.


End file.
